


The one with the corpse in the theatre

by afra_schatz



Series: rich blokes au [3]
Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: Agatha Christie - Freeform, Established Relationship, Humor, M/M, lindy hop, notorious lying, rich blokes au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-12
Updated: 2013-02-12
Packaged: 2017-11-29 02:35:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/681735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afra_schatz/pseuds/afra_schatz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wherein there is a 1930s themed party, Sean and Orlando educate the world on the benefits of whiskey drinking and fedora wearing and then the bodies begin to pile up</p>
            </blockquote>





	The one with the corpse in the theatre

The time: 2012, a Friday in June, well after midnight.

The location: Somewhere in New York where you can see at least three of the city’s landmarks if you glanced through the huge windows. A high end party, the champagne flows and swing music is playing over the speakers as if the entire setup needed any more help to feel like a set from a 30s/40s movie. 

The people: There are small groups at the bar, couples dancing, strangers on the balcony, bonding over the smoke from their cigaretts curling grey against the midnight blue sky. Oh right, and there is a group of people sitting on the white sofas close to the windows. 

One of them is wearing a fedora and suspenders but it’s questionable whether that is a deliberate choice for the party’s theme. He is also wearing bright red Chucks, they clash with his expensive black trousers even if they are exactly the same colour as the suspenders. His hat tries but fails to keep his dark curls in check and it sits a little crooked as if trying to match his smile. He is sprawled over the sofa like someone poured him there. He has got a drink in one hand and the other is casually resting on another man’s shoulder.

The other man, now he is dressed to impress, is as comfortable in his dark blue Valentino suit as other people are in their jeans and t-shirt. He has about twenty years on the first man which puts him around fifty, he has straight blond hair in contrast to the other man’s unruly mob. His laughter is deep and warm and something one easily learns to crave more than the bar’s most expensive whiskey.

As for the rest of the group – a woman in a timeless LBD with eyes as huge as Bambie’s is perched on the armrest at the blond’s side. Two other women in flapper dresses (one looks like a showgirl and the other like a crazy jungle princess) share a second sofa. Three men, all between 30 and 50, complement the set. One vaguely resembles Cary Grant, one could be a successful Wall Street broker, the third an even more successful gangster. 

Everyone is a little sloshed and there has been a heated discussion about football, European football – proper football as the blond with the dark voice insisted –, followed by one about the prohibition (missing the party’s theme and its point by about a decade). Sometime during that, the dark haired man gets up and returns with a new drink for himself and for the blond who takes it with a smile and a nod of thanks. As he resumes his place on the sofa the dark haired one catches the last bits of the mafia conversation and he turns to the blond with enough excitement in his motions to nearly spill his drink.

“Sean, it is exactly like that time you found the dead body in our theatre!”

Everyone falls silent and all eyes focus on the pair. The blond, Sean, takes a sip from his drink and only then shakes his head.

“No, it’s not like that at all, Orlando.”

“It absolutely is,” insists Orlando instantly and his eyes still don’t leave Sean’s.

The gangster clears his throat meaningfully. “What?”

“Dead body?” the showgirl asks breathlessly.

Sean ignores her, insists, “No, Lando, it isn’t.” 

“Oh, I see,” Orlando says and leans back, patting Sean’s shoulder lightly. “You blocked out the bad memories...”

“In your theatre?!” The interruption, slightly more forceful, comes from the Wall Street man. “A corpse in your home theatre?”

All eyes are still on Sean who still seems unfazed by it, ignores it in favour of keeping his eyes locked with Orlando’s. He tilts his head the littlest bit, a silent question maybe or a challenge, it’s impossible to tell. Orlando’s responding grin would make a lesser man blush. Sean just shakes his head but gestures Orlando to go on before he turns his attention back to the drink in his hand.

Orlando turns back to their small audience. His dark eyes ensure that he has all their attention, only then he begins his story. 

“Well, people, it all started like this: One morning – and it was rather late in the morning because Sean likes to sleep in, especially after having inhaled a dozen Martinis the night before and – “

“Martinis?” Sean interjects before Orlando can go on. He raises his whiskey with something like objection. “Excuse me but what kind of – ?”

“Shush, no use in denying it,” Orlando interrupts the interruption without missing a beat. “So, one morning Sean gets woken by our butler Miller –“

“You have a butler now, Sean?” asks Cary Grant 2.0 with mild amusement. Sean just shrugs.

“Don’t look at me. He insisted on hiring one for the house back home.”

“You insisted on living in a mansion, so technically it’s your fault,” Orlando corrects him before waving it aside. “Anyway. Miller wakes Sean up just like every morning. But not with a glass of water and a handful of aspirin discretely handed to the embodiment of a hangover, no. The first thing Sean sees when opening his eyes –“

“Grudgingly –,” Sean provides.

“The first thing he sees when opening his eyes _grudgingly_ is Miller’s ashen face and his trembling upper lip. And naturally he enquires what is the matter with him, considerate as he is. Miller fights to regain his composure but then he says ‘Sir, there appears to be a body in the theatre.’”

“No!” exclaims Bambie, even though that part of the story is hardly a surprise. 

Orlando however, shares her excitement and sits up a little straighter.

“Yes! And like that Sean is out of bed and on his feet. It takes him a moment to locate his dressing gown and he’s still struggling with the belt as he stumbles down the stairs.” Sean scoffs quietly at that description of himself but Orlando continues. “In the theatre the curtains are drawn and the sun, unconcerned by the tragedy that has happened, shines through the broad window front. In a corner, the maid whimpers quietly –“

“A maid? Seriously?” interrupts Wall Street again, for some reason not focussing on the important parts of the story. He shakes his head with incredulity.

“We’re filthy rich,” Sean says. “Get over it.”

Orlando nods, grins and then first points at himself, then at Sean while exemplifying, “Old money, new money.”

“Less money,” Sean mimicks mockingly and points at Orlando, then at himself, “more money.”

The gangster raises his hand and asks, “Weren’t we talking about murder?”

“Exactly!” Orlando nods enthusiastically. “So, the maid –“ 

“Baylor,” Sean provides.

“Baylor whimpers quietly and all she is able to do when Sean asks her where the body is at is point towards a spot in front of the couch, close to the huge flatscreen. Sean still doesn’t fully believe her, to be honest. After all, there are rumours that the house is haunted and he has the misfortune to only ever hire intensely supersticious servants.”

The little party chuckles and Orlando’s eyebrows hop up as if to agree with them. He allows it for one moment, then he shifts forward, elbows on his knees, and as effortlessly as a hypnotist holds his audience captive he reels all of them back in. He lowers his voice a little as if he is sharing a secret.

“There is a body, yes. And Sean’s knees threaten to buckle, he has to grip the back of the couch to keep himself from falling. His vision is blurring, the rest of the sitting room fades out of focus and all his eyes can see is the dead man on the ground: He is lying twisted, is wearing formal clothes but his white dress shirt is stained red.” He takes the hand from Sean’s knee and paints invisible smears of blood onto his crisp white shirt. “The cause of the stains is evident, the man’s head is caved in, there is a gaping wound on his forehead and thick blood has dried in his hair. He suffered a terrible beating, he must’ve been handsome but now his face is bruised almost to a point of disfiguration. But Sean _knows_ that hairstyle, knows how soft it is to the touch , he knows those features that he’s mapped with his lips’s tender kisses – “

“I think you’re starting to make people feel slightly uncomfortable with your morbid purple prose, darling,” Sean points out with mild amusement. 

The interruption has everyone laughing in relief. Orlando turns to look at him with one eyebrow arched. Sean instantly raises his hands in surrender, even evicts the small smile from its residence on his lips.

“It’s by no means a laughing matter, people,” Orlando says and the tone of his voice is serious enough for the chuckles to die down to unsure smiles. “Sean’s whole world crumbles in that moment, everything shatters around him as he stares with unseeing eyes down at the mutilated body of –“

“You,” says Sean.

“Me,” confirms Orlando gravely, though the arched eyebrow in Sean’s direction is back.

The stunned silence makes a return. It’s only a long confused moment later when Bambie clears her throat. 

“Orlando, you’re sitting right in front of us.”

“You didn’t die in your theatre,” points out the jungle princess, just in case anyone was unsure about that part.

Orlando rolls his eyes and leans back once more. 

“Of course you know that, and _I_ know that, but _Sean_ didn’t at that moment, did he? And he was devastated, absolutely devastated, weren’t you?”

“Hm,” Sean hums and it might have been agreement. Orlando of course takes it as such.

“Of course he was. I mean seriously, think about it, imagine how it would be to realise that you’ll never see me smile again, huh?” 

He beams and it’s ridiculous but even when announced and for show it can still take one’s breath away. It makes the others smile back automatically. ‘Carefree’ and ‘happy’ are stages of being so very highly contageous if Orlando’s spreading them. He turns his head towards Sean, the laugh lines around his eyes crinkle, his tongue darts out. Sean raises his glass in his direction. Orlando mirrors the gesture and they drink to this silent something lingering between them for as long as their gazes are locked.

The gangster is the apparently one with the greatest immunity against the hypnotising power of Orlando’s white teeth. Or he’s just the least patient.

“So,” he asks, barely moments later and addressing Orlando, “was that when you showed up and it got all sorted out?”

“Huh?”

“You left us hanging with a devastated Sean standing over not-you’s mutilated body,” the Cary Grant look-alike says like it was a ‘previously on’ recap.

“What happened next?” asks Wall Street.

“Well,” Orlando says, and for a moment it’s like he waits for the right moment in the music to get back into the rhythm, then he just re-directs the question. “What happened next, Sean?”

Sean just shakes his head and raises his shoulders. “It’s all rather a blur, I’m afraid,” he says as solemnly as noncommitally.

It’s all the push that Orlando needs apparently. He sits up again, takes off his fedora and places it on the table in front of him, and back is his storytelling voice, the intense look in his eyes as he glances around.

“Of course it’s all a huge blur after that. The police arrive and the medical examiner and Sean just sits on the couch and can’t think, let alone answer any questions. The body is removed and the forensic team begins their work and distantly Sean is aware that they ask him for the clothing he wore the evening before. There’s a plain clothes cop named Parker there now, with a bad haircut and a mustache but a kind voice. He’s sitting in the armchair opposite of Sean, asks him questions, asks him what Sean was doing last night and when he’d last seen me. And all Sean can think is ‘Just now, on the floor in front of me, dead, dead, dead’.”

Maybe it’s just the light, maybe it’s the memory. If at that moment someone looked at Sean, he’d see something less nonchalant, less easy-going, less devil-may-care may catch Sean’s smile and twist it just so. Maybe it’s just the light, maybe it’s the mere possibilty. But nobody looks at Sean, all eyes are still on Orlando.

“Where _were_ you during all this?” Bambie asks.

Orlando looks at her and his eyes challenge hers for hugeness.

Sean smirks and sips from his drink. 

“Bahamas, as per usual,” he provides. “He gets it in his head sometimes that he might turn back into the pasty British version of himself. Then he rushes to a convenient beach to work on his tan. And he’s usually not available because he misplaced his mobile in the ocean.”

Orlando laughs. “Please, that only happened this one time and I just forgot that I had it in the pocket of my cargos. Like you never lost hotel room keys in whirlpools.”

“That was definitely _your_ fault!” Sean protests with well acted indignation. “I wasn’t the one who insisted on –“

“Anyway,” Orlando cuts him off and puts his glass down next to his hat after finishing his drink. “Back to the corpse in our theatre. The day after the dead body is found the police shows up again, the same bad haircut, the same questions. But the kind voice is gone and Sean realises that _he_ is their main suspect.”

“Whyever would you kill Orlando?” The jungle princess sounds truly scandalised as she looks at Sean with huge eyes. “That’s preposterous.”

“Of course it is,” agrees Cary Grant jr..

“Well, I could have reasons...“ 

“Don’t be ridiculous, you love me more than –“

The showgirl cuts in, “Life itself?”

“He was gonna say ‘football’,” Sean corrects and toasts her across the table. “But alright, let’s go with ‘life itself’. Lando, care to enlighten these nice people here why I’m not in prison at the moment, serving 25 to life for bashing your head in?”

Orlando rolls his eyes as if that bit was totally obvious. 

“Well, as we’ve established, you’re filthy rich and have an army of lawyers that make it virtually impossible for the police to arrest you until they found the murder weapon or at least a witness. And once the wave of paralysing grief has washed over you it’s followed by a stormfront of anger of course. You can’t bring me back to life so you swear that you will find the real killer and take your sweet time with him before you deliver what’s left of him to the police.” He turns towards the rest of the audience. “Sean’s vendetta first takes him to all his ex-wives. They all have motives, –“

“Ex-wives?” Bambie asks, possibly pondering the plural form.

The showgirl suggests, “No doubt the divorces left them bitter?”

“Well, the first one has been nagging Sean for years to up her alimony. And the last one, well –“

Sean provides with a smile, “Let’s say that the fact that they all married me already shows very poor judgment and makes them instant suspects.” 

“And of course they were all insanely jealous of you,” Bambie says.

Orlando grins. “Naturally, especially the last one. That’s a good motive if I ever heard one. And they have opportunity because they all still have keys to the mansion since Sean never could be bothered to call a locksmith. But alas, when questioned they all seem to have alibies, same as Sean’s business rivals.”

“What do they have got to do with anything?” asks Wall Street.

“Pinning a murder on someone is a convenient way to get rid of them,” provides the gangster sort of knowingly.

The jungle princess nods understandingly. “Don’t forget that Sean is still the police’s prime suspect. It’s usually the spouse, isn’t it?”

“I couldn’t imagine why,” Sean comments deadpan.

Orlando gives him an especially sweet smile. “And Sean out of the picture, behind bars, surely that’ll mean a blow to his company. Greed is almost as good a motive as jealousy.”

“Almost?” asks the showgirl.

“It doesn’t matter anyway because it couldn’t have been them either.” Orlando’s eyebrows hop up. “Or could it? Sean is clinging to his investigation because it’s still the only thing that keeps him from shutting down entirely. It’s been merely a week but Sean isn’t sleeping and feels like he is spiraling out of control and he can’t even be bothered to care.”

“I rarely can.”

“For the purpose of getting information he even befriends the lead detective, takes him out for drinks in questionable boozers and dinner in high end restaurants in order to milk him for information. When he talks to the D.I. however, he always has the feeling that someone is following him, of being the subject of investigation rather than the instigator of it.”

“He _is_ still the prime suspect,” says the gangster. “Surely the police have him under surveillance as well.”

“It’s only logical,” agrees Cary Grant.

“Well, at this point Sean is a little beyond logic and reason. One moment he is sure he’s being tailed by the police, the next it feels like the murderer has chosen Sean as his next target. But there is a third possibility and it’s as much of a ridiculous long shot as it is the only thing Sean would put all his money on.”

“Well, what is it?” urges Bambie.

“Sean may be beside himself with grief or, you know, paranoia and everything but he’s still rather cunningly brilliant, all faults aside. So, he does the logical thing, he sets up a trap. He makes sure to keep his new copper friend around –“

“Who wouldn’t, when one’s life is threatened?” Wall Street says.

“Then one night, he deliberately shuts off the alarm of the house, leaves the veranda door to the living room open. Who could resist such plain inviting carelessness? Sean and his cop buddy sit on the couch, engulfed by darkness and they wait. And they wait. The night is long and the darkness is complete and Sean begins to feel tiredness settling in his body like lead. Dimly he registers that the copper’s breathing pattern changes and he feels the gentle pressure of a temple leaning against his shoulder. He’s too tired to care already and tells himself it won’t hurt to close his eyes for just one second, just a short little while... Abruptly he wakes up again when a torch is aimed directly at his face.”

Orlando stands up so quickly, it makes the flapper girls instinctively pull back a little. Sean looks up like he might have that night. 

“The light blinds Sean and when the disoriented copper next to him moves for his gun there is the distinctive click of a hammer cocking,” Orlando raises his hand, invisible gun in his hand. “’Stay right there’ is the order. It isn’t necessary because for seconds that feel like eternities he can’t move. The murderer stands right in front of him and Sean _knew_ that it could only be this way and still he can’t believe it. The murderer is still holding the torch and he’s waving his gun around in agitation.” Orlando’s hand automatically gestures and his voice is a louder. “’What the fuck is this then’ he asks and it’s _then_ that Sean’s mind excepts it. The person who beat the handsome face of his victim into a pulp before delivering the killing blow, the murderer is –“

“You,” Sean finishes, still looking up at Orlando and his invisible gun.

“What?!” the audience of six calls out in unison and very different levels of disbelief.

“You are the murderer?” 

“Of yourself?!” 

Orlando ignores them all, throws his hands up and glares at Sean. “What is _wrong_ with you?” he asks accusingly before he flops down next to him again. “I mean seriously you’re _incapable_ of keeping your trap shut, aren’t you?”

Sean pats his thigh calmingly and let’s his hand rest there. ”It _was_ fairly obvious at this point of the story, wasn’t it?”

”Even so!” Orlando insists but doesn’t push Sean’s hand away. “It’s just fucking rude –“

“Excuse me,” Wall Street cuts in before there is yet more blood shed. “But it’s not obvious to me. How can you be the murderer and the murder victim at the same time –“

“And are still alive in addition to that?” adds Cary Grant 2.0.

Bambie shakes her head. “That makes _no_ sense.”

Sean raises his drink as if seconding that assessment but his voice is warm when he says to Orlando, ”Yeah, do explain.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Orlando grunts and makes a gesture as if waving aside an annoying fly. He leans back with an ostentatious sigh, drapes his arm over the backrest of the sofa again. “Like I told you that evening, I killed that other bloke because I caught him in the house and I thought you were cheating on me.”

“Sean? Cheating on you?” repeats the showgirl a very un-lady-like snort.

“When did hell freeze over?” agrees the jungle princess.

Orlando shrugs. “Hey, the bloke looked exactly like me! Well, a cheap carbon copy of me. And he was in our theatre, what was I supposed to believe? Well, he might have been a burglar, come to think of it. Anyway, I got jealous, things were said that couldn’t be taken back –“

“And you bashed his head in which couldn’t be taken back either,” adds Wall Street laconically.

“Whatever. Anyway, after I explained it all to Sean he got all teary eyed and swore that he’d never cheat on me. Then he professed his undying love for me.”

Sean bursts into laughter. It’s a little inappropriate and the jury is out on why primarily – neither murder nor love declarations are particularly hilarious. Orlando glares at him and that makes Sean only laugh harder. He leans forward to put his empty glass on the table next to Orlando’s and then he squeezes Orlando’s thigh, still chuckling to himself.

“Aye, I’m a hopeless romantic.”

Orlando keeps a completely straight face as he nods. “And I remembered how loaded he is and what a good shag, too, and that I am stupidly in love with him. It was all rather lovely.” 

“Naaw,” coos Bambie, only somewhat ironically.

The rest of the audience is a little less interested in the romcom side of the story however. The flapper girls have taken up giggling helplessly (that may be caused by the champagne, not Orlando’s story) and the Cary Grant look-alike shakes his head.

So does Wall Street and he says, “Still wouldn’t explain why you aren’t in prison if you confessed to a murder in front of a cop.”

Orlando looks at him like the cleaning staff look at people who wait out the entire end titles in the movie theatre, torn somewhere between impatience and irritation. 

“Well, err,” he starts, frowns and seems at a loss.

“He shot the cop,” Sean helps him out. Everyone looks at him and the flapper girls stop giggling. Cary Grant is still shaking his head, but now with a little but still satisfying bit less conviction. Sean knows exactly for how long to just leave this hanging in the air. Then he shrugs and adds with no less nonchallance, “We buried him under my rose bushes – ”

“ – and then had raving make-up-slash-welcome-back-from-the-land-of-the-dead sex on the lawn,” Orlando finishes.

“Oversharing, Lando,” Sean says, possibly during the wrong part of the tale. 

Orlando still smiles at him genially and puts his hat back on before he annouces with a flourish, “And that is the story of the corpse in our theatre!”

“Wow,” says the gangster and it actually sounds a little impressed even if maybe not for the right reasons.

“Is _any_ of that true?” Bambie asks. “Even remotely?”

The jungle princess tilts her head, regards Orlando critically, “How many Martinis have you had?”

“I resent that,” Sean objects mildy. “We drink whiskey.” 

“Also, it’s time to dance now,” Orlando decides and promptly gets up from his seat. “It was lovely chatting with you,” he says to the audience in general and holds out his hand to Sean. 

Sean takes it and lets himself be pulled to his feet. 

“Fine, but no Lindy Hop,” he says with a sigh.

The music is strongly suggesting otherwise and Orlando looks fittingly offended.

“Whyever wouldn’t you –?“

“Because you always fall on your face and yes, I’m sure that’s not in the dance routine.”

The three women and three men remain seated on the white sofas, trading looks back and forth that range between confused, marvelled, amused and just plain sloshed.

Sean pulls Orlando along and Wall Street asks the world in general, “Is it just me or did all of that just now sound an awful lot like an Agatha Christie novel?”

Orlando adopts a look of mild irritation as he turns to Sean. “Did you hear that? That’s just rude –“

“Horribly so,” Sean agrees as they reach the dancefloor. 

He reels Orlando in by his suspenders, then he rests his lower arms on Orlando’s shoulders and Orlando instantly stops complaining. Quite a few people are on the dancefloor and are obviously suffering various stages of spastic attacks. For a while they dance and Sean makes Orlando laugh by feinting moves that are possibly the evil bastard children of the swing era. Orlando doesn’t trip over his own feet but the amount of whiskey he downed doesn’t make coordination easier, much to Sean’s amusement. Still laughing they end up like they started, with Sean’s arms on Orlando’s shoulders, Orlando’s hands on Sean’s hips.

“You were still wrong, you know,” Sean points out and maybe he is a little breathless from dancing or laughing or both.

“About what?”

“‘The corpse in our theatre’ is nothing like the thing we talked about before.”

“You were talking about the mafia, weren’t you?”

“We were discussing semi-legal ways of tax-evasion.”

“Boring. Besides, it got Al Capone arrested,” Orlando says with a shrug and easily swindles the lead from Sean, for once without stepping on his feet. “Tax-fraud is obviously a motive for murder as well.”

“Yeah, but it wasn’t yours.”

Orlando pulls back enough for Sean to admire the full onslaught of his indignation (which is not that far, Orlando has a very expressive face). 

“You won’t Lindy Hop with me _nor_ let me win this argument?!” 

It has the desired effect and Sean laughs.

“Well, in my defense what we just did was practically –“

“I killed two people for you!” Orlando interrupts him, maybe a little loud if one judges from the slightly bemused faces of the people closest to them. 

Sean just keeps chuckling and, pushing the fedora back, he leans his forehead against Orlando’s, his fingers curl against the back of Orlando’s neck possessively.

“I love you, too,” he gives in and Orlando looks smug.

oOo THE END oOo

**Author's Note:**

> Obviously, most of the crime plot is lifted from Agatha Christie’s “Body in the library” only that she’s not as crap as Orlando when it comes to plotting a whodunnit. The murder victim possibly was Hugh Dancy, if you ask me. And the names of the characters in the story are taken from Sean's and Orlando's movie characters.


End file.
